


Shine Your Light on Me

by Snacky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Worldbuilding, holiday fic, holidays in westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13027569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/pseuds/Snacky
Summary: Let's celebrate a Northern holiday with Sansa and Jon! Think about a Hallmark Christmas movie set in Westeros, and you're on the right track.





	Shine Your Light on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sardoniyx](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sardoniyx).



> Written for sardoniyx, for the Jonsaexchange on tumblr. Happy holidays! I hope you enjoy a little fluff! :)

As the day comes to an end, Sansa is hard at work. She sits in what used to be her mother's solar in front of a blazing fire, needle in hand as she works on finishing the cloak she has made for tonight's Festival of Lights. Despite the frigid temperatures outside and the snow piled high against the walls, it's warm in her solar, what with the fire and heat from the water from the hot springs running through the walls, and it's bright, with the last of the winter sunlight shining in through the windows giving her plenty of light to do her fine embroidery by.

There aren't many holidays celebrated in the North, as opposed to the South, where it seems like there's a holiday every time you turn. A day for each of the Seven, the King's birthday, Conquest Day, Holiest of Holies, Remembrance Day, the Feast of Baelor, The Feast of Alysanne, New Year's Day… the list seems endless, especially to one raised in the North.

The holidays in the North are fewer, but no less beloved or celebrated by the people. Harvest festivals, Solstice, Spring Festival, Midsummer Feast, The Day of Justice… all celebrated in their own ways, all days of merriment and feasting.

The Festival of Lights was always Sansa's favorite as a child. Held on the shortest day of the year when the night seemed endless, even in the long years of summer, it lit up the entire North, it seemed. Every window in every building in Winterfell held a candle, the same in every window in the winter town. And in the Godswood, there were torches burning everywhere, lanterns hanging from low branches, and the way to the heart tree lined with candles nestled in small jars, making it seem like the path almost glowed. And once in front of the giant weirwood, everyone member of the Stark family, every resident of Winterfell, would stop and kneel, and say a prayer to the Old Gods. 

And then they would make a wish. There were as many lights burning as there were stars in the sky, Sansa's father always said. Each light was supposed to represent a wish — a person would could make a wish, and blow out the candle or snuff the torch, and it would mean their wish would come true. As a little girl, Sansa wished for things like a new dress, or a pretty doll, or lemon cakes at the feast, and her wishes always came true.

Sansa no longer believes that wishes come true, but still, the Festival of Lights is dear to her heart. And tonight it will be celebrated just as it always was in the past, before the long years of war and hardship that have taken their toll on the north. Winter arrived, and they all survived, and the wolves returned to Winterfell. There are still days to come, and holidays to celebrate, and candles to light, and wishes to make. 

Tonight, she will make a wish, if only for tradition's sake, and maybe, just maybe, it will come true once again.

~~~

When Sansa was a child, her mother had told her of the all the holidays celebrated in the South, how there was one for each of the Seven. In the North, Lady Stark marked these days by visiting the sept in Winterfell, lighting candles, and whispering prayers along with Septon Chayle and Septa Mordane. Sansa accompanied her, as she loved the little sept with its pretty stained glass windows, and the sweetly scented beeswax candles that burned in the jeweled-colored light. Septa Mordane had always praised Sansa's devotion to the Maiden's Day as "the work of a true and devout lady" which made Sansa swell with pride.

But those days were long ago, and her time in the South had soured her on the Seven, and indeed on all the gods, both Old and New. When she was captive in King's Landing, in the beginning she went to the sept every day, like a true and devout lady, and offered her prayers to the Mother, the Father, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Crone, the Smith, and even to the Stranger, desperate for the help of the New Gods that she had always respected, revered, and worshipped, like her mother had taught her. She would never forget all the prayers she offered for help, for deliverance, for freedom — and not a one ever answered. 

Finally she had forsaken the sept and turned to the Godswood, spending as much time there as was allowed by her captors, seeking peace and solitude, though never expecting the Old Gods to answer her prayers. They were just as useless as the Seven, Sansa believed. Gods didn't answer prayers — they just heard them and turned their faces and let their followers fend for themselves, never offering a whit of help or a handful of comfort or a moment of grace.

Yet here she is in Winterfell, and it's her home again. Arya is here, and so is Bran, and even if that's all the family that remains to her, it's enough to make her happy. Maybe the Old Gods did hear her prayers, and had a hand in her return, and in Arya's and Bran's as well.

Maybe. She never made a wish on a light in those days away from Winterfell — the Festival of Lights wasn't celebrated in the south — but if it had been, maybe the Old Gods would have granted it.

Maybe the Old Gods were too busy fighting the Others. It seems far more likely that they'd devote their time to something as important as that, as opposed to listening to Sansa Stark's prayers or wishes. 

She could ask Bran about the Old Gods, she thinks as she dresses for the evening's celebration. He would most certainly know something about that, but asking those sorts of questions of Bran is never a pleasant experience, as Sansa has come to learn. Best, she thinks, to leave it alone, and to think that the Old Gods did indeed send Sansa Stark something good, when she needed it the most.

Because, after all, that's true, isn't it? She's in Winterfell, Arya and Bran along with her, the War has ended and humanity has won, and Jon Snow has returned.

Some days, Sansa thinks that's the thing she's most grateful for — that Jon Snow survived the Second War for the Dawn, when so many others did not. It's selfish, perhaps, to be glad of it, to remember the day he had limped into the courtyard at Winterfell, Ghost trailing behind him, and think of the happy tears she shed as she threw her arms around him, and welcomed him home.

He is her family, after all, if not the brother she once believed him to be. Even after Bran revealed the circumstances of Jon's birth, still the people of the North wanted to follow him as he led the battle against the Others, with the Dragon Queen by his side. It mattered not to any that Jon was a Targaryen by birth — as far as the people of the North were concerned, it was only his Stark blood that mattered.

Sansa had thought that was all that mattered to her as well. That Jon was a Stark, and her brother-turned-cousin, and that he had returned to Winterfell after Daenerys Targaryen had fallen in battle. All the dragons were dead, but Jon Snow survived.

Jon survived, and plans have been made, and now they are to be wed, to make him truly a Stark, so he can be Lord of Winterfell, and King in the North once again.

Sansa agreed to this plan — it seemed right and had the support of so many Northern lords and ladies. She has her doubts though, about wedding Jon, and for his part, has barely spoken two words to her since the betrothal was announced weeks ago.

She needs to get to the Godswood, as soon as she can, to make her wish.

~~~

Sansa peers into the looking glass one last time before leaving her chambers. The cloak she has made is fastened around her shoulders, with a wolf's head clasp. It's a deep midnight blue, edged with white ermine, and embroidered all over with white stars. Appropriate garb for the Festival of Lights. Her hair is plaited into a long braid hanging over her shoulder, and she has a momentary flash of pleasure at her reflection, that same feeling she used to have as a girl when she'd look into the glass and dream about the prince she would some day marry.

She's been twice wed, and never to a prince. But soon she'll marry a king, and she only hopes she's doing the right thing. Considering she never had a choice in either of her previous husbands, the fact that she has a choice at all seems to her a good sign.

She leaves her chambers, and makes her way through the halls of the Great Keep, stopping to wish a Bright Night to everyone she meets. Her progress is slow, as everyone wants to speak to the Lady of Winterfell, to tell her of their wishes, and to her hope hers comes true. 

It's almost like the old days, she thinks, as she finally makes her way across the courtyard, shivering in the frigid air, everyone in Winterfell full of joy (and mulled wine and strong cider), and celebrating under the glow of all the lights. Some things have changed irrevocably, and Sansa's heart will never be the same, but Winterfell still stands, and the Starks have survived.

~~~

When she approaches the Heart Tree, people depart, and when she kneels, Sansa finds herself all alone. She stares at the carved face of the weirwood and thinks of her mother and father, of Robb and Rickon, of all the others she has loved and lost. She offers prayers for their souls, and this takes many long minutes of kneeling in the snow.

She rises at last, and it's time to make a wish. She looks round the clearing, trying to choose a flame, the right one, the best one, so her wish will come true. Finally she decides on one of the candles ringing the hot spring, where steam rises steadily in the cold night air. She lifts the jar and cups it in her hands and starts to think of proper words for her wish.

It's then that Jon Snow steps through the trees. He seems startled when he sees her, and all he manages is her name, in a hoarse voice. "Sansa."

There seems to be miles of distance separating them, not just a few feet, and Sansa realizes she's not the only one bothered by the betrothal they both agreed to so hastily, for practicality's sake. Jon's face is troubled, his eyes dark, and when he looks at her, there's no trace of a smile. Sansa is unsure whether to speak or flee at first, but perhaps the Old Gods feel like answering one prayer, because all of a sudden, she knows what to do.

"Jon." She holds out one hand, beckoning him to her side. "Bright Night to you, cousin."

If he winces at that name, it's almost imperceptible, and he comes to her quickly enough, even taking the hand she's held out to him. Her gloves are white leather, lined with the same ermine trimming her cloak, and Jon's of course are black, but she glances at their joined hands, and thinks they look right together.

"A Bright Night to you as well, Sansa." He looks at the candle held in her other hand. "You've not made your wish yet."

"No." She glances down at the flame flickering in the jar, and thinks again about what she might say. "I was trying to think of the best wish I could make. Have you made yours?"

"Not yet." He shakes his head, and Sansa sees an odd look dart across his face, but it's gone in a flash. "I think… I've made so many wishes in the past, and had such… blessings, that it's not fair for me to ask for anything more."

His words come out slowly and he keeps his eyes locked on hers while he talks. While some might not call Jon Snow blessed or lucky, Sansa thinks she understands what he means. It's what she was thinking earlier — they have survived. They've returned to Winterfell, the Others are defeated, Bran and Arya are here with them, and despite all the losses, life goes on.

"Then I hope you don't mind if I share my wish with you." For now she knows what her wish will be.

Jon arches an eyebrow at that, but all he says is, "I would be most honored, my lady."

Very well, she thinks. The time has come, and she bends her head, looking at the light. "I wish for a good marriage, and an heir for Winterfell and for the King in the North. I wish that your reign will be fruitful and long, and I wish…" She thinks of her mother and father, and clears her throat before continuing. "I wish that some love will grow between us, and we will be happy together."

Really, it's more than one wish, but just tonight, she doesn't think the Old Gods will mind.

Nor will Jon, she thinks, and when she finally looks away from the candle and up at him, she can tell he's pleased by the smile on his face and the way his eyes sparkle. "That was just the wish I had planned," he tells her, laughter in his voice. "Nice and long."

"Hush," she tells him, but she knows there's a smile matching his on her face, and really, she's not sure why she doubted this was a good choice, or that Jon would be a good husband. After all, she loves him already, just as he loves her. Of all the doubts Sansa had, that was never one of them.

"No, Sansa, it was truly the perfect wish." His tone is serious now, as he leans in close to her, and for a moment, Sansa thinks she'll feel his lips against her own in a kiss. But then he asks, "Are you ready to blow out the candle?"

Sansa nods, and draws in a deep breath along with Jon, and together they extinguish the tiny flame cradled in her hand. "Do you think it will come true?" She can't help but ask, even though she's no longer worried about the future.

Jon doesn't draw away, just raises his head and looks at her for a long time. "I think… most definitely it will." And then he does kiss her, and Sansa believes wishes might come true after all.


End file.
